


brother's keeper

by nilchance



Series: lest ye be judged [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, set in year 12 of lest ye be judged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Asgore makes soup. Papyrus worries. Sans chokes.





	brother's keeper

"Yeah," Sans says when he picks up the phone, before Asgore gets out a word. "Okay. I'm comin'."

'Says' may be an overstatement. Asgore can think of several alternatives. Rasps, perhaps, or mumbles, or some semi-coherent combination of the two.

There is a monster in a locked room downstairs waiting to be declared innocent or a killer. If they're the latter, there are arrangements to be made for their long-term imprisonment and rehabilitation. There is, somewhat more immediately, Undyne leaning in his doorway looking like Asgore should start worrying for his furniture. All of these are pressing concerns.

However...

"Er. Are you all right?" Asgore asks.

Sans is not Undyne, who Asgore has known since she was eight, or one of the cooks or guards Asgore sees every day. Asgore would think nothing of asking after their health or their happiness. Sans treats Asgore with a refreshing casualness, forever unimpressed by Asgore’s title, but they are not close. Any attempt to learn more about Sans results in either a joke, a subject change or Sans just leaving entirely. Sans holds himself a little apart.

In almost a year of working together, Asgore knows four things about his judge's personal life:  
1) Sans loves his brother more than anything else in the world;  
2) Sans will talk about said brother at great length;  
3) Sans lives somewhere in Snowdin; and  
4) Sans has another job selling hot dogs.

Sans is a mystery.

"What? Sure I'm all right." Sans goes into a coughing jag. It's loud enough that Asgore yanks the phone away from his ear. When it's over, Sans sniffs and says, a little ruefully, "Why do you ask?"

"I can't imagine." Asgore sees the inevitable coming. Undyne is looking at him like she sees it too. Her eye narrows. Asgore turns so he doesn't have to face her disapproving glare. "It sounds as if you're ill."

"Eh. Been worse." Sans sniffs again, a thick noise that makes Asgore wince. "You afraid I'm gonna snot on the accused, big guy?"

Well, now Asgore is. He's still thinking of a polite way to say so when a voice comes from Sans's end of the conversation. "Sans? Who are you talking to? Get back on the couch! You have a fever!"

A rustling sound as Sans covers the phone's receiver to say, "Nobody, bro. I gotta go to work. Emergency."

"A hot dog emergency?" demands the voice, incredulous. It can only be Papyrus, the much praised and (apparently) very loud. "Give me the phone!"

There's a brief scuffle, then a pop. Papyrus's voice becomes indistinct, muffled by a wall. Several walls, perhaps. Sans apparently teleports to escape all awkward conversations, not just the ones with Asgore. Even though the words are muffled, Papyrus's outrage is very audible.

"Sorry 'bout that," Sans says.

Before the call can derail entirely, Asgore says, "It can wait a day."

There is a moment of quiet.

"You sure?" Sans sounds uncertain, as if he's not quite sure what to do with kindness.

If Asgore was undecided before, that settles it. "Rest. Let him fuss. Be sure to drink plenty of fluids."

A pause. Then Sans sniffs again. He sounds subdued. "Thanks."

"Certainly. It’s no--"

Sans has already hung up on him. Asgore looks at his phone, chagrined. Then, because he can feel her stare burning into the side of his face, he looks at Undyne.

Undyne crosses her arms. "You're a big squishy sucker!"

"It seems so." Asgore folds the phone carefully shut and puts it in his robe pocket. Dr. Alphys has already made him several replacements. He keeps breaking them with his too-big hands. Defensively, he says to Undyne, "He has a fever. I don't want the prisoner to become ill."

"You're hopeless! I'll lock the punk back up until tomorrow. Do you want to throw him some fluffy blankets while he's in there? Maybe a nice cup of tea?"

"Innocent until proven guilty, Undyne," Asgore reminds her.

"Ugh." Undyne rolls her eye hard enough to make up for the missing one. "Of all the things to take from humans, you pick that! Why can't you adopt giant punching robots?"

"I'm afraid we don't have space. It would have to be a small punching robot."

"Where's the fun in that?" Undyne uncrosses her arms. Asgore has been forgiven. "Are you sure your judge is real? Because he sure disappears when he wants to!"

"He prefers to keep quiet about being a judge. I can't blame him." A strange sense of dizziness comes upon Asgore, and he blinks. Deja vu. It passes as quickly as it came, and he continues, "I promise you that he exists. I couldn't make him up if I tried."

Undyne snorts, a perfect echo of Gerson. "I know that look."

"Which look is that?"

"The look that says you're going all soft on him!"

"I have a look?"

Undyne's grin shows many teeth. "Hell, leave you alone for five minutes and you're probably gonna make him soup!"

Asgore brightens. "Do you think that would be a good idea?"

Undyne punches him in the arm.

***

Asgore makes him soup.

It's a quiet day in the capital. He's only going to spend it gardening anyway. Snowdin isn't far, and if there is a crisis in the capital (there won't be and his people rarely let him handle anything short of killing children), he'll be right by someone who teleports.

He realizes that he's making excuses for himself. That doesn't stop him. It rarely does.

Snowdin is a cheery little place. The people know him there. He often visits the school to teach the children about responsibility and about gardening. Several of the children he remembers teaching like it was a week ago now have children of their own.

It's not difficult to find out where Sans lives. Some of the people Asgore asks groan and some smile, but there isn't anyone who doesn't know exactly who he means. He's going to knock, drop off the soup and excuse himself. It'll only be a moment. He'd do the same for any of his subjects if they asked.

Never mind that Sans didn't ask.

There are Christmas lights up on the brothers' house, either several months early or several months late for the holiday. It's charming. Asgore eyes the place for a long few moments before he scrapes up the nerve to knock on the front door.

There follows such a long period of quiet that Asgore starts to put the pot down on the front step, assuming that no one is home. Then the door is yanked open with great force and there's a familiar stranger looking at him.

If Papyrus wasn't a skeleton, nothing in his appearance would hint that he was Sans's brother. Where Sans is short and solid, Papyrus is tall and narrow. Where Sans seems perpetually on the verge of dozing off, Papyrus vibrates with life and interest.

Somehow Papyrus looks exactly how Asgore always imagined him.

They stare at each other in mutual consternation.

"Oh," Papyrus says faintly. " _That_ Fluffybuns." Then he snaps to attention, complete with a salute. The force of it nearly knocks him off balance. "I mean, hello, your majesty! I didn't know you were in the hot dog business!"

Asgore doesn't approve of Sans lying to his brother, but it's not his place to tell Papyrus the truth. Unfortunately, unlike Sans, he's not a very good liar. He says only, "Please, Asgore is fine."

"Papyrus is also fine, if we're speaking in the third person," Papyrus says. "Why do you have crockery?"

Asgore holds out the pot. "I brought soup."

Papyrus looks from the pot to Asgore and back to the pot. Then he beams. There are stars in his eyes. "Do you want to come in?"

"Oh, I don't want to be any trouble--"

"I would like you to," Papyrus says, quick enough that the words blur together a little.

As much as Asgore crumbled in the face of Sans's vulnerability, he surrenders before Papyrus's. "Then I would be honored."

"Really? Wowie!" Papyrus takes the pot from Asgore's hands and disappears into the house with it. Then he comes back to the doorway. "Do kings need to be invited in or is that vampires I'm thinking of?"

"Vampires, I think."

"You're not a vampire, are you?"

"Not as far as I know."

"I'm inviting you in just in case you're a vampire and don't know it," Papyrus says, enthusiasm undimmed, and goes in again. Asgore follows.

The inside of the house gives off the same comfortable welcome as the outside. The lights are turned low. The television murmurs and flashes, illuminating the couch and its blanket lump. A small white dog is curled up on top of Sans. It looks smug.

Papyrus bustles through the kitchen door and returns without the pot. He seems unsure of what to do with his hands. "I'm sorry about the mess. We've never had houseguests before!" 

There is no mess, aside from one sock on the floor near the television. For some reason, the sock has several post-it notes attached.

"I'm also sorry about the Sans, but I'm afraid he'll be the same no matter what. He does like to indulge his 'sleeping'," Papyrus makes fingerquotes, "hobby at inconvenient times. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." There's a table shoved in one corner. Asgore nods to it. "May I?"

Papyrus frowns. "May you what? Oh! Sit. Yes. I will... sit also."

There's a stack of textbooks on Papyrus's end of the table. When they're seated, Asgore asks, "College?"

"High school," Papyrus sighs. "I have to finish another year. Sans says I can't leave early to join the guard, which is rather hypocritical of him." Hopefully, he adds, "Why? Do I look older?"

High school. Papyrus is several years younger than Asgore thought. Sans is in that nebulous young adult stage where he could be as young as 20 or as old as 35, and he spoke of Papyrus with a devotion that's quite a bit of pressure to put on a teenager.

But then Asgore was on the throne at 17, newly orphaned, stuck with a war he didn’t start and couldn’t win. He doesn't know what a reasonable expectation would be.

"You seem very mature for your age," Asgore tells Papyrus.

Papyrus preens. Then he sharply straightens in his chair as something occurs to him. "You know Undyne."

Asgore's arm still aches where she hit him. There's probably a bruise under the fur. Ten years ago, she wouldn't have left a mark. He couldn't be more proud. "I do."

"And you're royal."

"So they tell me," Asgore says. More's the pity.

"Right!" Fingers laced beneath his chin, Papyrus looks at Asgore with big, shining eyes. "So you can put in a good word for me with Undyne! To be a guard!"

Asgore, who could enlist him in the guard on the spot, looks at his smiling face and says, "I'll see what I can do."

No. Heavens no. It's not just that Papyrus hasn't finished school and, from the looks of him, hasn't hit his full height. It's that the guard is still meant for war, waiting for the day that they break the barrier and the killing begins anew, and war would eat Papyrus alive. It's something of a snap judgment of someone he just met, but the certainty sits heavy on Asgore's mind.

Maybe by the time Papyrus graduates he'll have forgotten about it entirely. Or maybe Asgore is a coward shoving the consequences off on Undyne. Undyne is made of sterner stuff.

Either ignoring or oblivious to Asgore's hedging, Papyrus says, "Great! Good! Because I have a lot of experience in people management! Or at least brother management."

Asgore glances over at the unassuming blanket lump, which hasn't even twitched since Asgore came in. "Does Sans require a lot of management?"

"You have no idea," Papyrus says with a weariness beyond his years.

( _"You're such a crybaby," Chara sighs, gently wiping the tears off Asriel's face._ )

( _A hushed conversation through a bedroom door. "It's okay, Chara. You don't have to be scared anymore."_ )

"You might be surprised," Asgore says. "How is his cough? Has it improved?"

"Oh, that!" Papyrus's breezy answer does not quite cover the worry beneath it. "He does this all the time! It's fine. This wouldn't even happen if he wasn't so terrible at taking care of himself."

"Then it's a good thing he has you here," Asgore says. 

If anything, the reassurance only makes Papyrus look more uneasy. "Of course it is!"

An awkward silence falls. Asgore glances around the room, which shows no sign of other inhabitants. All the photos (which only seem to go back to Papyrus's early adolescence) are of only the two of them. No parents. No other family, adopted or otherwise. No close friends, judging from the fact that they've never had houseguests. No one to help.

There are many kinds of orphans in the underground.

Papyrus takes a deep, deep breath and blurts out, "Only he's been running this fever and he's _fragile_ and I'm very great but perhaps not so great at healing--"

"Would you like me to take a look at him?" Asgore asks.

If a healer was an option, Papyrus would have called them. It might be a matter of money or that there's no healer in such a small town, but the fact of the matter is that Asgore's here. It seems unfair to wash his hands of the matter now.

Papyrus relaxes. "Yes, please. Do you want the gold first? It's upstairs but--"

"You don't have to pay me," Asgore says, surprised. "If a king can't help his people, then what is he for?"

A furrow appears between Papyrus's brows. "Because there needs to be some reason to collect taxes?"

Asgore laughs. "Well, yes, there's that, I suppose."

"And it's hard to have a royal guard without a royal to guard."

"Very true."

"Sans used to say that somebody's mass needs to be on the throne to keep it from floating to the ceiling. At least I think he said mass." Papyrus frowns. "But that could be physicist propaganda. Do thrones float? If so, who's holding it down right now?"

"I think the throne drifts less than I do," Asgore says. "Regardless, I don't need to be paid."

Papyrus fidgets, clearly uncomfortable. Worry wins out and he nods. "I'll tell him. Um. Wait here one teeny moment."

Asgore waits while Papyrus goes over to the sofa, picks up the dog and deposits it on the floor, and pats Sans on the head. "Sans? We have a guest. I'd appreciate it if you didn't throw him through the wall, please."

After several more pats, which escalates to poking, Sans makes a long complaining noise and emerges from the blanket. One of his eyelights is blind. The other is unfocused. "G?"

"That letter isn't even in my name. The king brought soup," Papyrus says. "Because you know him, apparently, and you continue to not tell me things? And now your secret king friend going to heal you. I don't want to hear any gumption from you about it! This is a gumption free zone!"

Sans squints at Asgore. Instead of the irritation Asgore expected, Sans relaxes when he recognizes Asgore's face. "Oh. Hey. It's you."

Then he rolls over, burying his face in the back of the couch.

Papyrus pokes him in the spine again. Sans swats half-heartedly at him. "Is it all right if Mr. Fluffybuns Dreemurr does that?"

"Whatever," Sans says, muffled. "He's cool. Just lemme sleep, huh?"

Then he begins to snore.

Papyrus looks down at him and then at Asgore. He makes the same face Sans does when he's recalculating something. Asgore has no idea what he decides.

"You're a very rude host," Papyrus says to his brother. Despite the scolding, he tucks the blanket back up around Sans's shoulders with such gentleness that it hurts Asgore's heart. "You can come over now, Mr. Fluffybuns Dreemurr."

Asgore thinks about reminding Papyrus to call him Asgore, but in all honesty, he doesn't mind the fact that his kingdom calls him Fluffybuns. It means they're not afraid of him, and the nickname makes him think of Toriel.

He goes to the couch and sits beside it, on the floor, because when he's standing he feels like he's looming. The house is not scaled for boss monsters. Neither are its occupants. He feels like he could snap Sans's narrow spine, bare above the collar of his t-shirt, with one careless gesture.

"I can get you a chair," Papyrus says, hovering at Asgore's elbow. "Or a hot beverage? Is that what's customary? We don't actually have anything but milk. I was supposed to go shopping but. Well."

"Hot milk would be lovely," Asgore says, mostly to give the poor thing something to do. "Thank you."

"Okay!" Papyrus says, and doesn't move.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Asgore says. He does not ask _what on earth happened to you both?_ "I give you my word."

"I know you won't!" Papyrus says immediately. "Of course not! You're the king! I'd hate to have to make you leave."

He doesn't even seem to be aware that it sounds like a threat. He doesn't stop smiling. This nice, friendly young man will fight Asgore if he has to, king or not.

Papyrus might not be meant for war, but Asgore does not envy anyone who tries to hurt Sans where Papyrus can see them.

"I think we can avoid that," Asgore says. "You can stay and watch if you'd like."

"No, it's okay!" Papyrus says. "I'm sure you know what you're doing! I trust you completely!"

When he disappears into the kitchen, pots and pans clanging around, Asgore knows that in a matter of moments Papyrus is going to be back in the doorway watching Asgore's every move.

Asgore rubs his hands together, which does absolutely nothing for his magic except settle his nerves. He wishes Toriel was here. Her healing had saved lives more than once. But a simple cold? He can handle that much.

That impression lasts until he CHECKS Sans. 

1 HP. _He's lost._ Such small words, and yet Asgore's chest hurts like they dealt him a physical blow. Small wonder Papyrus is so worried for him. All it would take is one mistake.

Asgore shouldn't be seeing this.

 _He's lost._ It seems so familiar...

He takes a deep, steadying breath and looks at Sans.

( _and there is a shadow crouched above him, black as ink, black as the void, one hand resting on the back of San's neck. Protective. Possessive. It raises the two white stars that are its eyes and sits up straight, one of its hands reaching for Asgore's face_ )

Asgore jerks back. His soul beats in his chest as if it wants to break through his ribs. His hands burn with reflexive magic to... attack? Defend?

What had he been doing?

The little house is quiet. Sans continues to sleep (or feign it well), his ribs rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his unprotected back to Asgore.

"Mr. Dreemurr?"

Papyrus is in the doorway of the kitchen, as expected. There's a mug in his hands. The hot milk. Hadn't he just started that? How long had Asgore been sitting here? What on earth had he been doing?

"I must really not understand healing! It looked like you were just staring at Sans for six minutes!" Papyrus says, smiling and tense. "He's not that interesting. He's less interesting when he's sleeping."

"Forgive me," Asgore says. "The mind wanders sometimes when you get to be as old as I am."

"Mostly people are dead before they're as old as you are," Papyrus says conversationally. "Dead people aren't very interesting either. I prefer living people!"

Asgore has questions. He doesn't ask any of them. "They do tend to be more, er, animated, I agree."

"Exactly!" Papyrus beams, his wariness gone, leaving Asgore to doubt whether it was there at all. "It's nice that we have things in common."

"I... yes." Asgore's fur is still bristled up. He rubs at his arm, trying to flatten the fur. "When you were standing there, did you happen to see something else? It's a strange question, I know, but--"

"I saw nothing," Papyrus says. "It lives here too."

"I'm sorry? I don't..." There is a strange pain in Asgore's head, behind his eye, like something is trying to climb out of his skull. He rubs at his forehead. "I'm..."

There is something he's supposed to be doing. There is something he's forgotten. There is--

Sans coughs like a clogged drain, hard enough that his bones chatter a little. Asgore nearly jumps out of his fur.

Of course. That's what he'd been doing, healing Sans. How silly of him to forget. He's certain now that he's coming down with a fever himself. His body aches like it.

Papyrus frowns into the cup. "This milk must like to be cold. Very sneaky. Well! No beverage is going to out-stubborn the great Papyrus! Nyeh-heh-heh!"

And he disappears back into the kitchen.

It's a strange thing, healing a monster that's made up of bones strung together with magic. Sans has no lungs. The congestion is all in the flow of his energy, magic gone stagnant and clotted in some places and burning too hot in others. His magic seems thin, exhausted, as if he's running on fumes.

Asgore eases healing magic into Sans, coaxing the knots to unwind. They resist like live things, but with patience they sullenly give way. When Asgore stops, there's sweat running down Sans's skull and Asgore's back, but Sans seems to be breathing a little easier. He isn't radiating heat anymore.

While Asgore was concentrating, Papyrus must have crept closer. Asgore can just him in the corner of his vision, clutching the cup in one hand and fretfully gnawing on the cuff of his sweater.

When Asgore turns to look at him, Papyrus tries to look annoyed and not like he's worried sick. It isn't very effective. He looks so young.

"He'll be fine," Asgore says. Some of the tension goes out of Papyrus's shoulders. Asgore smiles to see it. "Tired, but fine."

"He's always tired," Papyrus says dismissively. He's fidgeting with the frayed ends of his cuff. "All this fuss over nothing! Typical."

"No, it was wise of you to ask for help," Asgore says. "Everyone needs help sometimes."

"Yeeees," Papyrus says, clearly meaning 'no but I'm too polite to bring it up.' "I'm sure most people do. I am, of course, very wise."

They look at each other. Papyrus plucks at his sweater. Asgore says, "He does this a lot, you said."

Papyrus huffs. "Only because he takes terrible care of himself. Honestly, if I wasn't here, I don't know what would become of him. No one would vacuum."

"You keep a very nice house." Asgore glances at Sans. He can't tell if Sans is truly sleeping. He could be eavesdropping. "Thank you for the milk. May I?”

“Oh! Yes!” Papyrus hands him the mug and watches closely, anxiously, until Asgore drinks.

“It’s very good,” Asgore reassures him. Papyrus relaxes a little. It’s too close to manipulation for Asgore’s taste, but he takes advantage to ask, “Is there a doctor in town?"

"There would be, but he didn't actually finish his doctorate," Papyrus says. "Or do you mean a useful doctor? Because no, and he probably shouldn't doctor himself anyway. He'll go blind."

Another bit of information to file away. Asgore wonders if Sans knows Dr. Alphys from school, then. That would be lovely; she always seems so lonely. "The capital is a bit far, but I know a doctor there. The old royal healer. Maybe she could help."

"With what?" Papyrus says. 

It's difficult to tell if he genuinely doesn't understand or if he's trying to play the fool until Asgore gives up. It's a tactic Asgore recognizes from Sans, who tends to add a lot of 'ain'ts' and lose the end of his gerunds when he doesn't feel like being questioned. Or when he thinks he's being underestimated. Or just when he wants to amuse himself.

No, Asgore sincerely doubts that Papyrus is a fool.

"With his condition," Asgore clarifies.

"What condition?" Papyrus asks. There's definitely an edge to his cheerful obliviousness now. He's going to make Asgore work for it. If Asgore had any doubt that he was related to Sans, that would resolve it.

Asgore sighs. "Well. Let's see. How about if this happens again--"

"Inevitably," Papyrus mutters, which would be anyone else's normal speaking volume.

"-- you can call on me. I'm happy to help. Truly."

Papyrus cocks his head, eyes narrowed. "Because you're in the hot dog business."

"Ah." Asgore hesitates, not helping Sans's cover story in the least. "No. It's because if I can help anyone, I like to at least try."

The smile that breaks across Papyrus's face reminds Asgore of a sun he hasn't seen in years. "I say that all the time! Wow! You really are a big fluffy pushover like everyone says!"

Papyrus sounds so much like Undyne. Asgore might not suggest Papyrus for the guard, but he’ll mention him to Undyne anyway. She always needs sentries to look for fallen humans or just to help monsters who stray from the (literal and figurative) path, and Asgore thinks she might like Papyrus. He has a feeling they could be good friends.

He thinks Papyrus is a little lonely.

“Thank you,” Asgore says. “I do my best to be accommodating. The fluffiness I can’t help, I’m afraid.”

“You could shave. I do it twice a day!”

Asgore isn’t very familiar with skeleton monsters, seeing as Sans was the first one he’d met in a literal millennium, but he wouldn’t think shaving was a concern. He scratches at his beard. “Well, I’d look rather silly without a beard. I need it to balance out the horns, you see.”

“Then it must be a very heavy beard!” Papyrus says. “Or very light horns?”

Before Asgore can answer, the cell phone in his pocket gives a tinny little chime. He pulls it free and examines the cracked screen. There’s a text message from Dr. Alphys asking for a meeting about her human eradication / favor for a dear friend robot. _whenever you’re free! no rush!!! unless you want to have a meeting!!!_

He can almost see her putting her head in her hands after typing the message, breathing too fast and insulting herself. All of his reassurances can’t seem to dull the knife of her self-loathing. The longer he dilly-dallies, the more time she has to work herself up into a panic.

With a sigh, Asgore replaces the phone in his pocket and looks at Papyrus. “I’m terribly sorry. I have to go.”

“Oh,” Papyrus says. Then he shoves his disappointment down under a smile. “I understand! Someone needs to get your throne down from the ceiling!”

With Undyne around, that sadly isn’t an impossible scenario. Asgore finishes the hot milk and passes the cup carefully back. “Keep Sans home for the night, if you can. I understand it’s something of a trial.”

Papyrus scoffs, but it’s clearly fond. “It’s a whole courthouse!” Then he frowns and drags a hand over his face. “And he’s a terrible influence.”

Asgore laughs. “I sympathize. I knew someone once…” There’s no forcing her name past his lips, not without it catching like a fishhook. “Puns are rather contagious.”

“My prospects are bleak,” Papyrus sighs. “I’m so young. Er, not too young to be a guard, you understand, but--”

Sparing him, Asgore says, “No, I understand. Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

“Thank you for temporarily fixing Sans!” Papyrus says. His fixed smile looks a little tired. “I’ll make him bring the crockery back the next time you have official hot dog business. Or whatever you’re doing. I’ll be sure to wash it, since he won’t do it.”

“You don’t have to--” Asgore takes a second look at Papyrus’s face and gives up. A young man has his pride. “Thank you. If you’d like, you could bring it to the capital. We could have a cup of tea.”

“What about the other letters?” Papyrus asks.

It’s extremely hard to tell if he’s kidding. Asgore smiles. “I’ll invite them. You never know.” 

“Exactly! It doesn’t do to alienate letters. It makes letter-writing difficult.”

“I imagine it would.” Asgore hesitates. “Before I go… is there anything you need, Papyrus?”

“I’m fine!” Papyrus says the familiar refrain with more confidence than Sans, as if sheer force makes it more convincing, but the family resemblance is unmistakable.

Asgore inclines his head. “I don’t doubt you are. Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where I am. I am, as you say, a big fuzzy pushover.”

“Okay?” Papyrus says, less certainly. He curls his arms around himself and smiles, brave and terribly young. “Okay.”

Asgore lets himself out. 

His chest aches terribly the whole walk home.

***

"Your guy's innocent."

Asgore is not surprised to look up from his flowers to find Sans in front of him. Dismayed, but not surprised. He puts down the watering can. "I left strict instructions for you to rest."

"So it's a good thing I went to see a guy who was arrested," Sans says. When Asgore only raises an eyebrow, Sans whistles through his teeth. "Tough crowd."

Asgore gets to his feet, wincing as his knees protest. They don’t seem to have gotten the message that Asgore doesn’t age. "Does your brother know you're here?"

"Nope. He's in school. Gotta be back before 3." Sans sniffs. He looks better than yesterday, but still not well. The dark circles under his eyes almost blend into the sockets. "So I'm gonna skip straight to the part where no, the guy didn't kill anybody. It was an accident. He's real sorry about it. Might still be crying. I dunno. I kinda left."

"You're a font of comfort," Asgore says. When Sans laughs, an actual laugh that jags sideways into coughing, he adds sheepishly, "That was unintentional."

"That makes it even funnier," Sans says. His eyelights are very bright, which could be because he was laughing or because he's still feverish. "You're an okay guy."

Definitely feverish. "That's kind of you to say."

It's untrue. Sans knows what Asgore has done.

Reading Asgore’s disbelief, Sans says, "I mean, don't get me wrong here. It doesn't fix anything. But yesterday... there was no reason for you to do that."

"Of course there was a reason.” 

"Yeah?" Sans's eyes search Asgore's face. "What's that?"

 _He's lost._ Two words that prickle Asgore's mind like a song he can't remember the words to.

"You're my friend," Asgore says.

Sans opens his mouth to say something. Shuts it. His gaze veers down to the flowers. Abruptly, he says, "You ever heard of multiverse theory?"

Asgore blinks at him. The only safe reply seems to be, "I'm sorry?"

"Multiverse theory. Alternate universes. Timelines. Quantum stuff."

"Some," Asgore says, calculating the odds that Sans would be willing to call his brother to come get him. They're low. "I'm not very good with quantum things, I'm afraid."

"It's what it sounds like. Every time a person makes a choice, a timeline branches off. Big decisions, yeah, like the humans deciding to kill us all instead of trapping us down here, but even small decisions make a difference. Turn left instead of right. Don't take a walk. Go down one alley instead of another."

"For want of a nail," Asgore says. "That's very interesting. Perhaps you should sit and tell me more about it."

Sans glances at him for a second, one measuring look, and then at the ground. "You can live an entirely different life depending on whether you went on a walk... I dunno. Twelve years ago. But on some level, you're also the same person. You can't get away from yourself. You'll always be the kind of guy who wants to make soup for people who haven't given you any reason. You want to make tea for the kids you kill."

Asgore winces. "Yes, that's--"

"You won't always do it. You _can't_ always do it. But it's always there. We're all always there if you go look deep enough. The things we love, we always love. That doesn't change. Ever."

It's the most words Sans has ever said to him, the most emotion he's ever shown. His voice is hoarse by the end of it. Asgore does not feel his forehead like he would if one of his children came to him with a cough and too-bright eyes, although his hands itch with how much he wants to. "Sans, is there something you're trying to tell me?"

Sans searches Asgore's face for a long few moments. Whatever he's looking for, he doesn't find it. The tension goes out of him. His grin skews like he put it on wrong.

"Sans--"

Sans laughs, a dry and bloodless sound, and coughs into his fist. When he's done, his normal grin is intact. He looks wrung out. "Just a whole lot of talk. Forget it. Anyway, science is great, huh?"

"... yes," Asgore says. "You explain it well. Papyrus told me you study science."

"Only thing I study is the inside of my eyelids." Sans sidesteps Asgore, headed for the door. "Hate to geek and go, buddy, but I'm missing out on prime nap time. Papyrus is gonna freak if he gets home and I'm not there."

Of that, Asgore has no doubt. Fast talker or not, he's a little surprised that Sans got Papyrus to go to school at all. "Er, is it safe for you to teleport right now? I'd be happy to walk back with you."

"Jeez, you end up in a wall one lousy time and nobody lets you forget it." Sans looks at Asgore's face and chuckles. "Kidding. It was two times."

"I am not reassured," Asgore says. It comes out in the stern tone he'd use with Undyne if she was being ridiculous about letting him heal an injury.

His disapproval only makes Sans laugh. "What, now you think I'm gonna dust if somebody looks at me wrong? Sorry you didn't CHECK the merchandise before you hired me?"

Despite his words, Sans seems more amused than offended. Still, Asgore says immediately and firmly, "No. Of course not. I'm sorry, I completely invaded your privacy."

Sans waves that off. "Papyrus asked and I said it was cool, big guy. Don't sweat it. Thanks for the, uh, healing thing. I woulda been okay, but. Thanks."

"Any time," Asgore says. "It seems like... well, it seems like you and your brother could use a friend. I could certainly use every friend I can get."

"What'd you think of him?" Sans says. His gaze flicks away to a distant corner of the room. "Papyrus, I mean."

There is definitely a right and wrong answer to that question. Luckily, Asgore can reply with complete honesty. "I like him very much."

Sans's smile is bittersweet. "Yeah. I knew you would."

**Author's Note:**

> my sfw tumblr is over at glitterchance.tumblr.com if you want to say hi.


End file.
